


The Remington Portable No. 3

by unquietspirit



Category: Real News RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, F/F, M/M, Speakeasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 02:01:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unquietspirit/pseuds/unquietspirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Rachel has a speakeasy and Anderson has a typewriter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Remington Portable No. 3

**Author's Note:**

> This story uses a word for black people that was, during the era in which it is set, considered politically correct, but is no longer.
> 
> My research consisted of watching the last part of the PBS documentary "Prohibition" and reading a dozen or so webpages. Please forgive any historical inaccuracies.
> 
> Many thanks to sarken, for giving it a beta and a title.

The club was barely worthy of being called such. It was a short step above a gin mill and didn't have an official name. It wasn't close to his apartment or office, and there was no entertainment provided beyond getting bent. While Rachel, the owner and bartender, mixed the best hooch in the city, it was the atmosphere that kept Anderson coming back. The first time he'd entered the place, he was greeted by the sight of Rachel leaning across the bar to neck with her Negro girlfriend. No one looked twice at them, and Anderson decided then to adopt it as his second home. It was the kind of place where all types mixed freely, if not always peacefully.

Aunt Gertrude, a regular of the more upscale speakeasies, would no doubt have finally followed through on her threat to have him disowned had she known where he spent most of his nights. Anderson secretly hoped word would get back to her somehow and lift the burden of the Vanderbilt name off his shoulders forever. Perhaps then he'd be taken seriously as a journalist. It was only concern for his mother's feelings that kept him from telling the old bird himself.

He had it down to a routine: lug his Remington Portable No. 3 typewriter from his apartment to the tiny brownstone (if it was raining, he hailed a taxi, but more often he'd walk the dozen blocks); give the password at the door; order a Whiskey Old-Fashioned; and set up the typewriter, with his notes spread around it, on the big back corner table while Rachel made his drink. After a few minutes, Isha, Rachel's girlfriend and the only waitress, would deliver it to him with a smile and some warm conversation before leaving him to write.

That night, however, his routine was interrupted. It started with the arrival of Olbermann, who was distracting even on the rare occasions when he didn't try to be. "Slumming it again, Vanderbilt?" he asked, plucking Anderson's hat off the table.

Anderson turned in his chair and tried to snatch it back, but Olbermann held it just out of his reach. "How many times have I told you my name is Cooper?"

"Your mother's a Vanderbilt, makes you a Vanderbilt," Olbermann replied. Then, their standard exchange over, he ran a broad hand through Anderson's hair, disheveling it, dropped the hat again, and walked off to his usual spot at the bar.

Anderson was torn between wanting to fix his hair and not wanting to transfer pomade to his Remington's keys. Olbermann, a writer himself, likely knew the dilemma he'd caused and was enjoying it, he thought with gritted teeth. "Isha? A napkin, please?"

She laughed as she brought one over. "What's eating you, baby?"

"Nothing, thank you."

Isha made a doubtful noise and cast eyes at Olbermann's back. Anderson ignored her until she turned away in response to another call, the beaded fringe of her dress swirling.

With his hair fixed and the pomade rubbed off his skin, he tried to focus on his notes, but even from across the room, Olbermann could not be tuned out. It was the way he spoke as he reigned over the bar, Anderson decided. Not loudly, but _large_ ly, with wide, forceful gestures. Anderson doubted there was anything about Olbermann that wasn't large. He let his mind linger on that for a few moments before shaking his head and resting his fingertips on the keys once more. The right place, perhaps, but not the right time, not with a deadline breathing down his neck. Not the right person, definitely.

He skimmed over his notes, found where he had left off, and began to type. The keystrokes' sound was lost in the chatter of the club as he filled page after page, occasionally taking a sip of his Old-Fashioned. Rachel never minded that he made a single drink last all night and took up a table meant for four. She would just nod as he got up to leave and say, "See you tomorrow."

It was nearing that time, and he had finally emptied his glass when the bell rang.

"Raid!" Rachel shouted over the sudden panicked cries, ringing it again. "Everyone down to the basement and out the back. The bulls are on their way!"

Anderson immediately began pushing notes and typed pages into his attaché. People were screaming and shoving past each other to get to the basement door, sending glasses crashing and chairs and tables toppling to the floorboards. "Dammit, Rachel," came Olbermann's voice, rising above the others, "what do you pay them off for if this is the warning you get?"

"Fuck if I know," Rachel said. Anderson looked over in time to see her shove her best bootleg into Isha's arms. "Hide that downstairs, doll, and quick."

He snapped his attaché closed and started wrestling the typewriter into its case, but Olbermann grabbed his arm, pulling him away. "Leave it, you sap!"

Anderson yanked free of his grip. "No!" The Remington was one of the few things he'd bought with his own money. He wasn't about to let it get smashed on the floor like the glass shards that crunched under his shoes.

Olbermann glared at him, then heaved it into the case himself, shut it, and hoisted it in one hand while taking Anderson by the elbow with the other. "You're screwy, you know that? Move!"

He had little choice but to obey, with Olbermann dragging him to where the door was hidden by curtains. Rachel held it open long enough for them to get through, then shut and locked it behind her. "Down and to the right," she whispered. "Quiet as you can. They're on the front steps."

The staircase was darker than a tomb, and with his attaché in one arm and Olbermann holding the other, Anderson couldn't use the wall to steady himself. He picked his way down slowly, wincing at each creak and groan of the treads. Hopefully, the racket the police were making breaking in the front door would cover them. At the bottom, he expected a step that wasn't there and stumbled, but Olbermann yanked him upright again. Then another hand reached out of seemingly nowhere and pulled him to the left.

"In here, all of you. I think there's a fella waiting out back." It was Isha. He felt Olbermann follow him and heard another door close and lock before she let go of his arm.

"I'm not a piece of salt-water taffy, you kno-!"

Olbermann's palm over his mouth cut him off. "Hush, Cooper."

"They shouldn't find us in here," Rachel whispered, somewhere to the right. "The other side of this door's made to look like the wall."

"As long as they don't hear us," Isha said.

They fell silent, listening to the raid going on upstairs. What few bottles and pieces of furniture remained were being smashed, from the sound of it. Olbermann didn't seem inclined to let go of Anderson's arm or remove his hand from Anderson's mouth, so he was forced to stand there breathing in the scent of the other man's tobacco and soap. He resisted the childish urge to bite the palm. Rachel or Isha brushed against his back as they moved further into the room, proving that yes, there _was_ enough space to make Olbermann's proximity to him unnecessary.

 _Some lousy timing he has,_ Anderson thought. But his body reacted more and more to Olbermann the longer they stood there. When a half-dozen or more pairs of policemen's boots pounded down the staircase and just feet past their hiding place, he found himself leaning, heart racing, into Olbermann's warmth.

Dim light came suddenly through the cracks around the door, letting Anderson see the shape of Olbermann's hat as he tilted his head toward the muffled voices of the cops. They seemed to be arguing about something, but Anderson couldn't make out the words. Then they left. The crash of the basement door closing behind them echoed off the cinderblock walls. Still, Olbermann didn't let him go.

"I'm going to check they're really gone," Rachel said after a moment.

"Be careful," said Isha.

Anderson took a small step out of the way as he felt her move past him again and stubbed his toe against the typewriter case on the floor. Olbermann's hand smothered his yelp.

A few tense minutes later, Rachel returned with a flashlight. "All clear. C'mon out."

Finally released, he followed Isha through the doorway, blinking in the relative brightness.

"How bad is it, honey?" Isha asked.

"Pretty bad," Rachel said. "Must be your lucky day, though, Cooper. This is the only thing they didn't destroy." She held his hat out to him.

"Thank you," he said, taking it. "I'm sorry about.... What will you do?"

Rachel sighed. "Clean up, sell some of my bootleg to pay for new furniture, and open again, I guess. What else can I do?"

"We can help you clean," Olbermann said.

"That's a nice offer, but not tonight. I just want some sleep right now. You two should go out the back, so you don't cut yourself on the glass up there."

Reluctantly, Anderson put his hat on. "Send me a telegram if you need anything." Rachel nodded as Isha embraced her. He left, and was halfway down the alley outside when Olbermann's voice stopped him.

"Forget something?"

 _Damn, the typewriter_. He turned to face Olbermann.

"You nearly got arrested over this machine, and then you just leave it in a damp basement. Maybe I should keep it."

"Maybe you should give it over," Anderson said, raising an eyebrow, "before I sock you in the jaw."

Olbermann had the gall to laugh at that. "Here. Wouldn't want you to hurt yourself."

He took it by the sides of the case to avoid touching Olbermann's fingers on the handle. Three steps away, he stopped again and looked over his shoulder. "You called me Cooper."

"Well, I've heard that's your name."

The shrug was what did it. Only Olbermann could make such a small gesture look both sheepish and arrogant. Anderson _had_ to kiss him.


End file.
